


Coincidences (Or The Case of the Pizza Murder)

by bloodlessdandy



Category: Good Omens (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale is a Pizza after Sex person, Crossover, Investigations, John Watson likes dick, Lazy and Relaxed vibe, London, M/M, No beta: we die like men, Pining, Pining John, Pining!Johnlock, Purple underwear bcos yes, Shagging!Ineffables, Slice of Life, Summertime Slash, hints of sexy times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-08-10 03:02:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20128273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodlessdandy/pseuds/bloodlessdandy
Summary: Coincidence, n.a chance occurrence of events remarkable either for being simultaneous or for apparently being connected.Or: what are the chances that the brightest detective in London ends up ringing a bell of a corner bookshop in Soho, his head deep in investigative detective stuff, while...well, the shop owner's head has been deep somewhere else entirely?





	Coincidences (Or The Case of the Pizza Murder)

**Author's Note:**

> make it canon: Aziraphale is a Pizza after Sex person.

_Coincidence, n._

_a chance occurrence of events remarkable either for being simultaneous or for apparently being connected._

‘_Ah_, don’t you just love summer?’ As Aziraphale’s fingers pull the curtains aside, a cascade of light spills into the bookshop. He peeps at the humming street outside. The sky above London is rosy, blue, silver and orange all at the same time and the angel can’t help smiling at that small vision of tranquillity.

‘Erm, _no?_, angel.’ Crowley spits an olive pit at the bottom of a glass where, a couple of hours ago, there used to be a fair amount of Martini. ‘Too many people for my liking. Walking the streets, invading the shops, eating their weird food in Soho... Not to mention those inclined to hop on the tube without washing before. And on top of tha-…’

‘Yes. Yes, I get it.’ Aziraphale shakes his head, a fond smile on his lips as he glances across the room at his demon, half-naked and sprawled on the sofa. His pale skin gleams, touched by the last rays of sun threatening to engulf the shop with their brightness.

That sudden alarming thought convinces the angel to put the curtains back to their place before pacing slowly across the room, directed towards his demon.

Crowley doesn’t want to miss a second of that scene. Aziraphale walks with the grace of a wild cat (_I can’t believe I’m this head over heels_) and his hips are swinging (_good Heavens, you’re so beautiful_), as if he was dancing (_is he dancing now?_), in a peculiar, very bizarre way. He’s funny (_and also sort of hot_).

‘What?’ Crowley grins. ‘What is it now, that you’re so happy?’

Aziraphale looks relaxed. _Paradisiacally_ relaxed. His eyes are closed as he slow-dances to the beat of his own drums – rather, Crowley thinks, to the beat of his own… Violins? Oboes? Gavotte instruments? – to his own music, in a nutshell.

‘You need to ask, darling? I thought you were a pretty good observer.’ Aziraphale opens his eyes and his eyelids glisten in the light for a split second as he shoots a glance at his lover. If he wasn’t already lying down, Crowley thinks he’d probably faint.

The soft light encapsulating that scene is enough for Crowley to observe the angel’s features in adoring silence. His angel is _beautiful_. Probably it will take him roughly another 356 years to say that out loud but _God_, _Heavens_, _Kingdoms_ _Above_, _Below_, _Everywhere_, Aziraphale is the purest and most wonderful creature Crowley has ever laid his eyes on.

Crowley stretches his legs on the sofa. Plenty of space for him, now that he doesn’t have to share it with Aziraphale. Not that he had minded sharing for the previous five hours. The sex had been _otherworldly_.

But Crowley’s control of the sofa is a short-lived bliss, because Aziraphale soon leaves the skies and clouds among which his mind is floating and lands back on Earth, sitting right next to his demon. When Crowley stretches his bare legs again, he does so on Aziraphale’s equally bare lap.

No matter how hard Crowley concentrates, he has no idea what happened to their clothes, nor they are anywhere in sight. If they miracled them away, well, that’s tomorrow’s problem.

‘You know perfectly well why I’m so ecstatic, Crowley dear.’ The angel whispers, sending one of those quirky-pointy smiles of his straight in his beloved’s direction. As he observes his demon, he feels the burning desire to tangle his limbs with Crowley’s.

‘Uhm, I have some ideas, yes. Just a couple.’ Crowley loves acting smug and totally cool. And Aziraphale loves playing along, letting him puff up his feathers (as birds and demons alike do, Aziraphale knows) and strut around. Aziraphale knows that, deep down, his ferocious snake is a _softie_ at heart.

Crowley’s hand darts to the nape of the angel’s neck, caressing the soft, freshly-cut hair before slowly making its way upwards to tease the locks and play with them and _torture_ him just a bit. Crowley adores torturing Aziraphale. When Crowley’s with him, he bites and pinches and licks and tickles. Heck, he’d be a professional torturer, if that was a position available in Hell.

‘A couple, you say. Pray tell.’ Aziraphale replies. Crowley could _swear_ he is about to purr under his touches.

‘Well, maybe you’re happy because I’ve come.’

‘Which _one_ of the times are you referring to?’ Aziraphale murmurs. He doesn’t blush anymore, but he has this _fucking lovely_ way of biting his lower lip capable of sending Crowley’s head spinning.

‘Wicked. You’re so _so_ wicked.’ Crowley roars and laughs right after, not resisting the occasion to leap forward and bite the angel’s shoulder, pink and soft as a ripe peach. He leaves a kiss right after, planting it on the red spot marked by his teeth.

‘I am led to believe this is, first and foremost, your fault.’

‘How so?’

‘Well, you lit the fire.’

‘Yes, angel. _I_ lit the fire, but _you_ jumped and roasted your marshmallows on it.’

Aziraphale’s lips let out a loud laughter that warms the demon’s heart. He can’t possibly object to Crowley’s accusation and the metaphor is, he must admit, exquisite. The angel shakes his head, then glances down to Crowley’s legs on his lap. They’re long and funny, just like him. Aziraphale’s fingers run from Crowley’s ankle up to his knee, then down his ankle again. He’s slow, slow, _slow_. Absurdly slow.

Ten minutes in that position and under those caresses and Crowley’s dark scales won’t be the only things popping their head out.

Aziraphale bends, leaves a kiss on Crowley’s knee, then looks at the funny face Crowley makes every time he kisses parts that the demon finds, I quote, _weird and unattractive_.

‘Are you going to say the weird and unattractive thing again, dear?’ He murmurs.

Crowley wriggles his nose. He feels defeated when his psychic angel knows what he’s going to say next. To his surprise – no, not really – he can’t help melting under Aziraphale’s kisses as they continue up and down his thigh.

‘Glad that you spared us that _bollocks_ again.’ Aziraphale grins, too close to Crowley’s groin for that word not to be employed on purpose. He lifts his head before bending once again to kiss the demon’s other knee. Then he continues fondling Crowley’s legs with his angelic fingertips. Slow, slow, _slow_…

‘So, summer.’ Crowley coughs to clear his throat, then leans back on the sofa. His arms are beneath the back of his head to replace the pillow Aziraphale’s stolen. ‘I hate it. Too hot. Sweaty.’

‘I am inclined to think hot and sweaty wasn’t a problem until ten minutes ago.’

Oh, here he is at it again. Sometimes Crowley thinks it wasn’t a good idea to introduce Aziraphale to human lovemaking. Except that he doesn’t really think that. In fact, it probably was one of the best ideas.

‘Is it _another_ innuendo? Seriously, another one?’ The demon smiles, his limbs still sore as he slithers slowly under Aziraphale’s loving hands. His chest is still damp – angelic matter, turns out, isn’t as easy to wash off as he’d imagined – and his neck feels funny after spending twenty minutes in that _glorious_ position.

Oh, how he wishes he could freeze a picture for Heaven and Hell in those splendid moments. A postcard, sort of. With a brilliant caption_: this is what we’re up to while you’re off our backs. I’d write ‘kisses from Aziraphale and Crowley’ but hey, would you really like to receive those kisses? Heck, we’ve been busy giving head to each other for the past half an hour._

‘So, just to be clear, would another go be enough to make you stop?’ Crowley murmurs, his arms unfolded and his hand now caressing Aziraphale’s forearm. He looks at his angel, pink-cheeked and with his hair all over the place. _God, he is irresistible_.

‘Well, maybe.’ The angel nods slowly, his head tilting for a second as he ponders. ‘That…or pizza.’

He grins, and Crowley’s already stretching towards the coffee table, ready to grab the phone and call Aziraphale’s favourite pizzeria. The dingy one in Chancery Lane.

Now, Chancery Lane is not that distant from the bookshop. It’s a 26 minutes drive if you are a London cabbie, you can beat 23 if you’re driving a bike, as pizza guys often do, and it takes you 12 minutes if you are a maniac like Crowley. So, when one hour and a half later the pizza hasn’t arrived yet, Aziraphale finds himself in the uncomfortable position of having to call the place again (_no, no way, I don’t want to talk to people, no no way_) or just sit back, relax, and pretend everything’s okay. He opts for the second.

Crowley stands on the other side of the room. It’s good that they’ve found their clothes, otherwise he would have had to miracle them back and his sweetheart would be utterly _destroyed_ by the thought they’re not real but just made of miracl-y matter. Crowley simply doesn’t care. He grins, arms folded in his chest as he ogles at his angel – sprawled on the sofa in the middle of a debate with his not-so-ethereal, quite-human anxious self.

‘Everything alright in there, angel?’

‘No. Yes. Maybe. I’ll settle for a maybe now. Thanks, dear.’ Aziraphale splutters, glancing back and forth to the coffee table where the telephone lies untouched.

‘Are you waiting for a miracle?’ Crowley’s eyes dart to the telephone, then back to Aziraphale, as he buttons his shirt again. His chest still feels somewhat adorably and obscenely decorated by the angelic fluids.

‘Speaking of which’, Aziraphale springs on his feet, ‘we could have miracled the pizza.’ He nods. He’s not convinced of a single syllable he’s just pronounced.

‘Heaven would send you strongly-worded notes, it wouldn’t have the same taste, you would know it’s fake, stuff like that…’ Crowley’s fingers keep count of the reasons as the demons lists them. Gosh, he knows Aziraphale so damn well. He shoots a glance at his impatient angel right after. ‘It will arrive.’ He says.

And he appears calm on the outside, while on the inside, well, they are technically hurting his angel, this bunch of assholes, so if they refuse to feed him any longer he’ll have to go there with the Bentley and miracle their mozzarella supplies out of the fridges for the following week. If that doesn’t destroy their business forever, then nothing will.

Ten minutes of Aziraphale fiddling with the wire of the telephone pass before there’s a knock on the door. The starving angel leaps up, gestures Crowley that he’s going to get it, then reaches and opens the door.

A funny-looking, lean man is standing outside. He is wearing an absurdly long coat and a scarf and Aziraphale can’t help wondering how he’s resisting in that heat wearing coat and scarf.

‘Hi. Mr. Fell?’ The coated man pushes the carton box forward. Crowley watches over Aziraphale’s shoulder, making sure the stranger knows the angel’s guarded.

_No manners, this one._

‘Hi, yes’ the angel takes a deep breath, there’s just a pinch of anger in his voice, but let’s be honest, it’s Aizraphale we’re talking about.

‘It’s fourteen pounds fifty.’ Eyes reduced to a slit, the funny lanky man stays still on the doorstep. He looks impatient to run away, as if delivering pizzas and taking care of the clients wasn’t his job.

_Funny, very funny man._

‘Yes, absolutely. I’ll go fetch them. Be back in a jiffy.’ Aziraphale runs inside. Crowley, his arms crossed on his chest, looks straight at the weird man outside. He is quite sure he’s seen him before. Maybe on the tube. Nah. Maybe on the papers. The man, looking anything but shy, stares back.

Crowley could swear he is carrying a magnifying glass in his left hand. But then, why should a pizza boy carry a magnifying glass with him? To inspect the pepperoni? To check how many seeds the tomatoes have?

When Aziraphale comes back, a trail of perfume and lurid smell invests Crowley’s nostrils.

_Bloody Hell, angel, are you advertising?_

Crowley’s basic animal instinct compel him to jump towards the door as Aziraphale approaches the man. As the angel gives him the jingling coins and takes the box, Crowley is standing right behind him, ready to grab his shoulders and snatch him jealously from the tall man’s eyes.

‘Here you go. I apologise if…if, well, the place wasn’t easy to find.’ Aziraphale smiles apologetically at him.

_Gosh, he can’t help it, can he?_ And, what was that all about? He’s waited for nearly two hours and he’s the one apologising. No one told Crowley falling in love with an angel was going to be a training for his patience.

‘No problem. Goodbye.’ The pizza man nods, then he turns to his heels before stopping in his tracks and turning towards the bookshop door. ‘Oh, and if I were you, gentlemen, I would change that lightbulb before it burns in about a dozen minutes.’

Aziraphale looks a tad puzzled, but his angelic manners demand him to thank the man profusely before going back inside. As he shuts the door, Crowley turns towards him with an eyebrow arched.

‘Well, what a peculiar fellow.’ Aziraphale murmurs. But now he has no reason to care. He goes back to the desk and, before Crowley has time to realise, pounces on the carton box waiting for him. He’s already grabbed fork and knife, as a good pizza-eating angel does, and he’s about to slice his own paradise right in front of him, when…

_Plink_. The light goes out in the room.

‘Is it the lightbulb, dear?’ Aziraphale enquires, tentatively looking up.

Crowley, who hasn’t moved, looks at the burnt lightbulb above his head. His eyes are reduced at a slit. Although Aziraphale has spoken another couple of sentences, he feels compelled to follow up on one of his previous observations, so he answers in a whisper.

‘Very peculiar, _yesss_.’ Crowley hisses.

_somewhere not too far,_

_sometime not too distant_

‘_Saucy_ case this time?’

‘Uh?’ Sherlock steps in the living room. He’s initially confused by John’s question.

‘_Oh_.’ He looks down at his ridiculous pizza-boy clothes and the realisation dawns on him. ‘Quite so.’

John grins. He is proud of his puns. Since he moved in with Sherlock, his puns hardly ever lead to a laughter. Sherlock can be a funny man, in his own ways, but he’s not very fond of puns, or irony, or sarcasm, for that matter.

The detective makes his way to the kitchen, where he – John knows – will not bother caring about the fact that his flatmate is in and will just strip and walk half naked. Let’s be clear, the case comes before any flat-sharing rule.

John smiles, then his eyes meet the brightness of his laptop’s screen again. His blog needs more maintainance than he had originally foreseen, now that Sherlock’s becoming someone. Even on a quiet Sunday in the middle of August, here he is, busy updating the visiting hours of the week.

It must be difficult, he thinks, being a client of Sherlock’s. You never know when he’s inside, never know what to expect, if a genius or a madman, and you can – generally speaking – never be sure he is mocking you, not until the last second of your interview together. John knows. He’s seen one too many cases in which Sherlock listens to a 5-hour-long conversation only to kick the client away in the end.

‘Has anyone called while I was away?’

‘Nope. Even criminals need summer holidays, Sherlock.’ John’s nose jumps up from the laptop screen and he looks across the room. Sherlock is absorbed in his sample analysis, but he’s undoubtedly smiling at him. John bites his lip.

‘It’s clear, John. It’s all clear now.’ After long minutes of silence, he hears Sherlock from the remote distance of the kitchen sink, where he is probably mixing some pizza dough with some sauce and chemicals. Whatever the heck he mixes in the sink, John doesn’t want to know. Since he washes his cups there, it’s one of the rare cases in which ignorance is bliss.

‘Something in the dough, Sherlock? Some kind of flour that proves how the cook has an offshore account to send money to his estranged daughter to the Philippines?’

Sherlock pops out of the kitchen, his brow furrowed. And yes, he is half naked. _Again_.

John acquires that information quite fast (_he should wear purple underwear, they’d match his skin…)_. At least fast enough to lift his gaze from his pale thighs (_gosh, they’re so damn white_) to his face.

‘You mock me, John.’ Sherlock stares at him for a solid second, then disappears again. _Thank God_.

‘The delivery time. It’s all about the delivery time. The boy’s alibi!’ He shouts. As if that information should shed some light on the matter. The point is, it doesn’t. Because, as it often happens, John has no idea what the matter is in the first place. His forehead wrinkles in a half-confused, half-amused expression.

‘Care to explain, Sherlock?’

‘Murder in Chancery Lane. The boss, Michele, is killed. Davide, the pizza boy, is working his shift as every Sunday. Usual delivery to Soho.’ Sherlock comes out of the kitchen, starts pacing up and down, as restless as an untamed horse. ‘He comes back after one hour and three minutes. It takes roughly 23 minutes for each route. Doesn’t add up.’

‘So, he’s killed the man and escaped with a pizza? Clever guy.’

Sherlock stops in the middle of the room. His arms shoot up to the sky. ‘No, John! For Heaven’s sake.’ His fingers land on the bridge of his nose, massaging it slowly. ‘He has killed Michele _in between_ the routes.’

‘In between? How could he…-‘

‘Drone. He was in the back alley of the Soho shop, fiddling with a remote. He couldn’t risk failing his mission, so he had to stop in between routes. _Ah_, I love it when they think they’re so clever but they’re just…well, human.’ Sherlock grins. And John thinks it’s not decent to be smiling over some poor man’s death. But then again, it’s Sherlock Holmes we’re talking about and there’s hardly any decency left in him. If you poured it outside of the man, it wouldn’t fill half a cup.

‘And he also tampered with the electricity of a shop on the corner, so that the owner wouldn’t see anything if he happened to glance outside.’

His current outfit – rather, non-outfit – proves John’s point that Sherlock has no decency left.

He’s not staring (_purple underwear, yes_). He shouldn’t be staring (_it’s definitely the right colour_). Flatmates don’t stare (_it’d make the color of his skin pop out, and it’d make a certain effect on his…_).

‘Come on, John, can’t you hold it for a second?’ Sherlock hisses.

John startles in his armchair. His gaze leaves the surface of Sherlock’s lower abdomen as he glances up, determined to meet his eyes and play it cool.

_Just play it cool, John Watson. It’s not like you were thinking of his groin right now. It’s not as if you were wondering what he hides in there._

_It’s not as if you’re damn sick of him parading half-naked when he could parade naked. Just…naked. _

_Parade wherever you want, Sherlock. In the kitchen, in the living room, for God’s sake, parade in my goddamn room, Sherlock._

‘H-Huh?’ He gulps. Shit, Sherlock’s caught him staring. _Again_.

‘I’m surprised. You’re an army man, John. You should be able to restrain yourself.’ Sherlock murmurs, a bastard smirk printed on his face. He is pacing across the living room now. ‘Such curiosity…I am _appalled_.’

John isn’t fast enough to reply, that Sherlock’s already jumped on his line.

‘…I know you are dying to know how the crime was carried out, but don’t be so impatient.’

John goggles. It’s a fun ride, being around Sherlock. He is, undoubtedly, an unparallelled genius and all, but _gosh_ how oblivious he is of the most obvious things. For example, the fact that John Watson has fancied him since forever. And the fact that he’s dying for his attentions.

Wherever Sherlock is, in whatever situation, John is there. His eyes feast of his deeds of indecency inside the house, his heart leaps every time Sherlock grabs his arm in a dark alley, his ears rejoice when overwhelmed by the sound of Sherlock’s music. John’s quotidianity is Sherlock. John’s thoughts…Sherlock as well. John’s life is Sherlock.

And it’s not like eternity stretches in front of them and he has the time to pine forever. Oh no, one day John’s gonna tell him. It’s going to be fun to make Sherlock aware of something he hasn’t noticed. To see surprise dawn on his face. To savour the way the omniscent genius detective takes the blow of the unexpected. To tell him something he hasn’t figured out. To finally tell him: you see, Sherlock, you _see_ but you do not _observe_.

Oh, John is going to love it.

**Author's Note:**

> P.S. If silent reading is your thing, I'll love you lots. But, I won't lie, if you left a comment saying what you liked or didn't like or what you think, that would make my day. If you're reading this, though, it means you've made it until the end and I'm already super grateful for that.  
Keep rockin'.  
❤


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